In  Camp  and 
Trench 

Songs  of  the  Fighting  Forces 

by 

Berton  Braley 

Author  of  "A  Banjo  at  Armageddon,"  etc. 


New  York 
George  H.  Doran  Company 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN  THE   UNITED  STATES   OF   AMERICA 


TO 

CHARLES  AGNEW  MACLEAN 
Editor  of  the  Popular  Magazine 

at  whose  suggestion  and  with 
whose  encouragement  most 
of  these  verses  were  written 


68061 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Over  the  Top    .        .        .        •    ""  •        •        •        •  X5 

Names l6 

MEN  OF  THE  GUARD 

"B"  Division J9 

Chow •        •        •        -  2I 

Hiking 23 

Drill 25 

"PLATTSBURGERS" 


The  Colt .29 

The  Grind *        •        -3* 

Turnabout         ....«•.••     33 

Education •        -35 

The  Breaking  Point        .        ...        .     "  .        -37 

BOYS   OF  THE   DRAFT 

The  Recruit •        •  4i 

The  Old  Top  Sergeant    .        .  *        .        •  43 

"K.P." 46 

Jacks  of  All  Trades .  48 

The  Comb  Band 5* 

The  Slicker 53 

Ambition 55 

IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT 

The  Doughboy 59 

War  Songs 61 

Artillery 62 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 


Page 
The  Rooter 64 

Thanksgiving  Somewhere  in  France      .        .        .     67 

The  Christmas  Sermon 70 

The  Search ,73 

ON  THE  U-BOAT  TRAIL 

Heroes      .       ..        .  .        «        ....    77 

The  Destroyer  Men .  .       ...        .        .     79 

Not  in  Uniform       .  ...        .        .        .81 

The  Mine  Sweepers  .        .        .        .        .        .82 

Deserted  Roads        .  .        .        .    ,     •        .        .84 


[viiil 


IN  CAMP  AND  TRENCH 


IN  CAMP  AND  TRENCH 


OVER  THE  TOP 

IN  the  little  pause  when  the  drum  fire  stops  before 
the  whistles  blow, 
When  a  fellow's  heart  to  his  boot  heels  drops  and  the 

seconds  tick  off  slow, 
When  he  says  "Good-bye,  and  if  I  'go  west*  just  tell 

the  folks  for  me " 

And  then  chokes  up  in  his  throat  and  chest  or  cusses  a 

bit,  maybe, 
It  gives  him  courage  and  strength  and  pluck,  when  the 

others  wish  him  well 

With  "Over  the  top  with  the  best  of  luck  and  give  the 
Bosches  hell!" 

When  our  boys  shall  get  in  a  first  line  trench  of  the  big 

show  over  there 
And  breathe  the  smoke  and  the  battle  stench  as  the 

shrapnel  bursts  in  air, 
It'll  help  each  man  as  he  waits  and  waits  to  charge 

through  No  Man's  Land, 
If  he's  sure  that  back  in  the  Good  Old  States  we  know 

and  we  understand. 
His  heart  will  thrill  with  a  truer  pluck  if  he  knows  we 

wish  him  well, 
With  "Over  the  top  with  the  best  of  luck  and  give  the 

Bosches  hell !" 


[15] 


IN  CAMP  AND  TRENCH 


NAMES 


CALL  him  Sammy  or  call  him  Jack, 
Call  him  Johnny  or  Ted  or  Mac, 
Give  him  any  old  kind  of  name, 
It  doesn't  matter,  he'll  fight  the  same. 

The  name  you  give  him  won't  help  or  harm 
His  brave  young  heart  or  his  fighting  arm ; 
Whatever  the  label  that's  his  to  wear, 
When  he  hits  Berlin  he  will  write  it  there. 

So  call  him  whatever  your  fancy's  struck, 
If  you  only  love  him  and  wish  him  luck 
It  matters  not  what  the  term  may  be, 
Its  proper  spelling  is  Victory! 

So  call  him  Jerry  or  call  him  Jim, 

It's  all  quite  one  and  the  same  to  him, 

For  the  dream  that's  stirring  his  hot  young  blood 

Is  changing  the  Kaiser's  name  to  "Mud"! 


[16] 


MEN  OF  THE  GUARD 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


"B"  DIVISION 


WHEN  we  heard  our  country  calling  us  we  volun 
teered  for  service; 
It  was  just  our  simple  duty,  or  it  looked  that  way 

to  us, 
Though  the  thought  of  facing  shell  fire  made  us  feel  a 

trifle  nervous, 
And  we  weren't  exactly  anxious  to  be  mixing  in  the 

fuss. 
Now  in  companies,  battalions  and  in  regiments  we're 

drilling, 
We  are  lettered  and  we're  numbered  for  our  job 

across  the  foam, 
But  the  men  of  "B"  division  weren't  so  ready  or  so 

willing, 

While  we  hold  the  muddy  trenches  they'll  be  quar 
tered  safe  at  home! 


Oh!  the  men  of  "B"  division  made  a  safe  and  sane 

decision, 
They  are  meek  and  peaceful  parties  and  they  hate 

to  pack  a  gun ; 
They'll  avoid  the  great  collision  and  we  call  'em 

"B"  division 

'Cause  they'll  "B"  here  while  we're  fighting 
And  they'll  "B"  here  when  we're  done! 
[19] 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


"B"  DIVISION  (continued) 

They're  the  calm,  intrepid  members  of  the  tribe  of  "We 

should  worry !" 
"Let  George  do  it !"  is  their  motto,  and  they  follow  it, 

all  right; 
They're  the  ones  who  ducked  conscription — though  it 

put  them  in  a  flurry — 
And  they'll  try  to  cop  our  sweethearts  while  we  go 

to  France  and  fight. 
But  I'd  rather  be  a  soldier  who  is  daring  blood  and 

slaughter 
Than  to  have  a  heart  of  putty  and  to  stick  at  home 

and  know 
That  while  other  men  were  playing  in  the  game  across 

the  water 

I   belonged   to  "B"   division,   with   the   guys   who 
wouldn't  go! 

They  have  made  their  own  decision  and  they're 

stuck  in  "B"  division, 
While  we  do  our  bit  of  service  for  the  old  red, 

white  and  blue, 
But  we  view  'em  with  derision  and  we  call  'em  "B" 

division 

'Cause  they'll  "B"  here  while  we're  fighting 
And  they'll  "B"  here  when  we're  through! 


[20] 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


CHOW 


may  mutter  and  swear  at  the  Reveille  call 
With  its  "Can't  get  'em  up  in  the  morning," 
And  you  may  not  be  fond  of  assembly  at  all, 

But  you  drop  into  line  at  the  warning  ; 
Police  call  will  cause  you  a  lot  of  distress, 

Though  you  answer  at  once  or  regret  it, 
But  you  jump  when  the  splinter-lips  bugle  for  mess 
And  the  hash-slinger  yells,  "Come  and  get  it!" 


For  you  know  that  it  means 

"Form  in  line  for  your  beans 
With  your  mess-kit  in  hand — do  it  now!' 

And  you  cheerfully  come 

For  your  coffee  and  slum 
When  the  splinter-lips  bugle  for  chow! 


When  you  trudge  in  at  night  from  a  twenty-mile  hike 

With  your  throat  and  your  uniform  dusty, 
You  learn  what  a  genuine  appetite's  like — 

The  kind  that  the  writers  call  "lusty," 
And  a  feed  at  the  swellest  of  city  hotels, 

With  a  half-dozen  waiters  to  set  it, 
Wouldn't  touch  what  the  hash-slinger  serves  as  he 
yells: 

"Hi,  doughboys,  it's  up!    Come  and  get  it!" 

[21] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


CHOW  (continued) 

For  it's  filling  and  hot 

And  it  hits  the  right  spot 
And  it  smoothes  out  the  lines  in  your  brow, 

So  we  line  up  with  speed 

When  the  time  comes  for  feed 
And  the  splinter-lips  bugle  for  chow. 

It  is  bully  to  find  there's  a  letter  for  you 

Or  a  box  of  tobacco  and  candy, 
And  permission  for  leave  is  too  good  to  be  true, 

And  a  book  or  a  paper  comes  handy; 
But  the  moment  in  camp  that  is  dearest  to  me 

(And  with  pleasure  I  always  have  met  it) 
Is  the  time  when  the  hash-slinger  bellows  out  free; 

"Hi,  doughboys,  it's  up !    Come  and  get  it !" 

Oh!  we  kick  and  we  howl 

And  we  mumble  and  growl 
At  the  stuff  that  we  eat,  but  somehow 

We  gather  in  style 

With  a  standing  broad  smile 
When  the  splinter-lips  bugle  for  chow. 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


HIKING 
(Heavy  Marching  Order) 

ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR."    Some-hike!    Some- 
hike! 

Hot-sun.    Thick-dust.    Hard- work?    Sure-Mike. 
Forty-five-pound-pack-now-weighs-one-ton. 
"One-two-three-four"-I-swear-this-gun 
Isn't-any-small-arm.    Take-it-from-me, 
It-was-made-for-field-ar-tiller-ree! 
It-should-have-wheels,  six-wheels-or-more — 
Gosh-my-throat's-dry.     "One-two-three-four !" 

Route  step  is  easier,  breaks  the  monotony, 
Brings  back  your  spirits  a  bit,  if  youVe  got  any; 
Don't  have  to  count  every  step  that  you  take, 
Don't  have  to  watch  every  move  that  you  make. 
Some  other  squad  starts  to  kidding  and  joking  you, 
Then  you  kid  back,  though  the  dust  cloud  is  choking 

you; 

Maybe  a  bunch  starts  a  popular  song 
That  helps  a  heap  when  you're  hiking  along. 

And  then  when  you  stop  for  a  rest 
Where  the  grass  looks  so  soft  and  so  green 

And  you  loosen  the  pack  from  your  weary  old  back 
And  you  swig  from  your  army  canteen, 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


HIKING  (continued) 

You  heave  a  deep  sigh  from  your  chest 

And  you  say  to  yourself  as  you  sprawl: 
"Well,  I  thought  I  was  gone — that  I  couldn't  keep  on ; 

But  I  guess  I'll  get  through,  after  all !" 

Then  it's  "Fall  in — march!"  and  we're  off  again, 

A  bunch  of  dusty  and  tired  men, 

Whose  shoulders  sag  from  their  bandoliers 

As  they  tramp  along  for  a  hundred  years; 

Or  it  seems  a  hundred  until  you  get 

So  you  march  like  soldiers,  and  we  don't — yet. 

Our  feet  are  sore  and  we'd  like  to  quit, 

But  each  guy  summons  his  nerve  and  grit 

And  sticks,  somehow,  till  we  hit  our  camp 

With  the  corporals  counting  the  steps  we  tramp. 

"One-two-three-four."    Darn-all-this-work. 

I-wish-I-knew-how-I-could-shirk 

Long-hikes-like-this.    I'm-all-in-now ; 

When-I-get-back — oh-you-mess-chow ! 

Seems-like-I-can't-take-one-step-more; 

"  One-two-three-four.    One-two-three-four." 


[24] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


DRILL 

GOSH,  but  I'm  tired  of  drill! 
Clumping  all  over  the  lot, 
("Right  shoulder — humph!    Left  shoulder — humph!") 

Dusty  and  sweaty  and  hot. 
Tramping  the  clods  in  platoons  and  in  squads, 

Dressing  by  inches  and  charging  by  rods; 
Harking  to  shavetails  who  bark  their  commands ; 

Turning  and  wheeling,  or  standing  dead  still, 
Keeping  just  so  with  my  feet  and  my  hands — 

Gosh,  but  I'm  tired  of  drill! 


I've  got  an  ache  in  my  back, 

I've  got  a  pain  in  my  neck ; 
("Right  shoulder — humph !    Left  shoulder — humph !") 

Gee,  but  I  feel  like  a  wreck! 
Ache  in  each  arch  of  my  feet  as  we  march, 

(Feel  like  a  dress  shirt  without  any  starch). 
Doing  the  manual  hours  at  a  time, 

Learning  to  work  with  "mechanical  skill," 
Sergeant  says :  "Rotten !    You  guys  arc  a  crime ! 

Do  it  all  over." 

(We  do  it  all  over.) 
Gosh,  but  I'm  tired  of  drill! 


Day  after  day  after  day. 
Plenty,  I  say,  is  enough. 

[25] 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


DRILL  (continued) 

("Right  shoulder— humph !    Left  shoulder— humph !") 

Who  the  hell  started  this  stuff? 
I  wouldn't  kick  about  doing  my  trick 

Down  in  the  trenches — but  this  is  too  thick. 
Ain't  there  no  end  to  this  horrible  bore? 

Skipper  says :  "Boys,  if  you'll  work  with  a  will, 
We'll  make  you  soldiers  in  seven  years  more." 
("Right  shoulder — humph !    Left  shoulder — humph !") 

Gosh,  but  I'm  tired  of  drill ! 


[26] 


PLATTSBURGERS 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


THE  COLT 


COLT"  is  the  name  that  surely  fits 
This  weapon's  every  action, 
For  like  a  colt  she  runs  to  skits 

Which  drive  you  to  distraction. 
She  seems  a  gentle,  simple  gun, 

But  when  you  come  to  aim  her 
She  jumps  and  kicks  and  bucks  like  fun 
And,  gosh !  it's  hard  to  tame  her. 


The  blue-steel  Colt, 
The  new  steel  Colt, 

She  runs  to  stunts  erratic, 
For  she's  a  durn 
Tough  arm  to  learn, 

This  Army  Automatic. 


You  think  you'll  blow  the  mark  to  pot 

At  ten  or  fifteen  paces 
And  find  that  not  a  single  shot 

Has  left  the  slightest  traces. 
All  seven  bullets  went  astray 

Amid  the  zephyrs  breezy, 
Thus  showing  in  a  vivid  way 

The  Colt  is  not  so  easy. 
[29] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  COLT  (continued) 

The  nifty  Colt, 

The  shifty  Colt, 
She  speaks  in  tones  emphatic, 

But  often  works 

By  whims  and  quirks, 
This  Army  Automatic! 

Yet  when  you  get  to  know  this  arm 

And  how  to  coax  and  pet  her, 
She'll  do  her  duty  like  a  charm, 

No  gun  will  serve  you  better; 
She'll  stick  right  closely  by  your  side, 

And  as  the  fight  grows  hotter 
And  you  are  caught  in  battle's  tide 

You'll  thank  your  stars  you've  got  her. 

The  lusty  Colt, 

The  trusty  Colt, 
The  weapon  democratic, 

Whose  vicious  might 

Makes  men  one  height, 
The  Army  Automatic! 


[30] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  GRIND 

OH !  you  grumble  and  yawn  as  you  wake  up  at  dawn 
Or  maybe  an  hour  or  two  prior, 
And  you  jump  out  ker-plunk  from  your  nice  cosy  bunk 

To  a  floor  that  is  far  from  the  fire ; 
Then  there's  mess  and  "Police"  and  your  labours 

increase 

When  the  bugle  is  sounded  for  drilling, 
Which  is  needful,  all  right,  if  you'd  learn  how  to  fight, 
Though  it  isn't  especially  thrilling. 

But  you  simply  must  go  through  it, 
There's  the  job — you've  got  to  do  it, 

Though  there  seems  an  awful  gob  of  it  to  cram ; 
If  you  want  to  be  an  officer, 
A  good  efficient  officer, 
A  credit  to  your  Uncle  Sam ! 

Then  there's  bayonet  drill,  where  you  learn  how  to  kill 

In  a  manner  uncouth  but  conclusive ; 
After  which  you  must  scoot  to  the  range,  where  you 
shoot 

At  a  target  that's  highly  elusive. 
Then  to  classes  you  hie  where  you  buck  S.  P.  I. 

And  the  I.  D.  R.  adds  to  your  worry ; 
Even  noon  call  for  mess  scarcely  lightens  the  stress, 

For  you've  got  to  get  through  in  a  hurry. 
[31] 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


THE  GRIND  (continued) 
But  the  Training  Schools  demand  it 
And  you'll  simply  have  to  stand  it 
And  go  trotting  to  the  slaughter  like  a  lamb 
If  you  want  to  be  an  officer, 
A  first-class  A  1  officer, 

A  credit  to  your  Uncle  Sam! 

In  the  trenches  you  grub  and  the  suicide  club 

Needs  a  lot  of  your  strictest  attention, 
And  there's  duty  to  do  with  the  wig-wagging  crew 

And  the  hikes,  which  are  painful  to  mention; 
And  at  night  there  is  school,  which  you  find,  as  a  rule, 

Is  productive  of  labour  and  sorrow; 
Then  you  loaf  till  it's  taps — that's  a  half  hour,  per 
haps — 

And  there's  nothing  to  do  till  to-morrow. 

But  although  you  growl  and  grumble, 
You  will  do  your  duty  humble 
With  the  patience  of  an  oyster  or  a  clam 
If  you  want  to  be  an  officer, 
A  real,  up-standing  officer, 
A  credit  to  your  Uncle  Sam! 

Glossary:  "Police" — cleaning  up  barracks  and  streets,  etc. 
S.  P.  I.— "Small  Problems  in  Infantry."  I.  D.  R.— "Infantry 
Drill  Regulations."  Suicide  Club — Machine  Gun  Men.  Wig 
wagging  Crew — Signalmen. 


[32] 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


TURNABOUT 

TO-DAY  I  am  only  a  private 
That  every  one  orders  about; 
When  a  Sergeant  says  "Hup !" 
I  have  got  to  play  up, 
And  I  jump  at  the  corporal's  shout. 
But  presently  I  shall  arrive  at 
My  turn  to  be  Sergeant;  oh,  boy! 
And  the  Sergeant  to-day 
Will  be  private,  and,  say, 
I  guess  that  won't  fill  me  with  joy! 

I'll  make  him  stand  round  at  attention, 
The  way  that  he  does  it  to  me, 

And  I'll  give  him  a  call 

If  he  blunders  at  all 
Or  he  errs  in  the  slightest  degree. 
I'll  use  all  my  native  invention 
To  work  him  with  vigour  and  vim, 

And  whatever  he  did 

To  keep  me  on  a  grid 
I  shall  certainly  do  it  to  him! 

For  it's  all  in  the  game  we  are  learning 
And  it  isn't  in  rancour,  we  know; 
Though  this  turnabout  stuff 
May  appear  a  bit  rough, 
[33] 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


TURNABOUT  (continued) 

It's  the  way  to  make  officers  grow. 
It  means  that  the  stripes  we  are  earning 
Will  represent  labour  and  sweat — 
And  the  Sergeant  just  now 
Will  have  beads  on  his  brow 
When  I  am  a  Sergeant,  you  bet! 


[34l 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


EDUCATION 

BELIEVE  me,  hereafter,  whenever  I  meet 
A  chap  who  is  digging  a  ditch  in  the  street 
I'll  bring  up  my  hand  and  salute! 
For  I  have  been  learning,  in  sap  and  boyau, 
How  hard  you  must  work  and  how  much  you  must 

know 

To  be  a  good  shovel-recruit. 
My  hands  are  all  blisters,  my  muscles  are  lame 
From  digging  the  sand  and  revetting  the  same 

In  a  proper  and  soldierly  style, 
And  all  the  night  long  as  I  lie  in  my  bunk 
I  dream  about  dirt  by  the  ton  or  the  chunk 
And  sand  by  the  linear  mile. 


I  used  to  think  trenches  were  simple  and  plain, 
Requiring  no  actual  use  of  the  brain, 

But  I  was  mistaken,  that's  clear ; 
From  what  I've  observed,  if  you  build  them  correct, 
You  need  to  be  carpenter,  drain  architect 

And  plumber  and  mine  engineer. 
So  we're  getting  plenty  of  drill  from  the  start 
Till  we  learn  every  phase  of  the  business  by  heart, 

And  we  know  all  the  hooks  and  the  crooks, 
For  when  we're  commanding  our  men  at  the  front 
We've  got  to  know  all  of  this  trench-digging  stunt 

Without  any  help  from  the  books. 
[35] 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


EDUCATION  (continued) 

I  talk  about  parados,  wattling,  facine 

And  think  that  in  time  I  will  know  what  they  mean; 

Though  at  present  I'm  hazy,  I  guess. 
Perhaps  when  Fve  dug  out  a  dug-out  or  two 
I'll  learn  why  I'm  doing  the  things  that  I  do 

And  accumulate  sense,  more  or  less. 
And  meantime  I'm  drilling  with  shovel  and  pick 
In  sand  that  is  heavy  and  mud  that  is  thick, 

Constructing  traverse  and  redoubt 
And  doing  my  Sunday-school  darndest  to  cope 
With  all  the  instructions.    I'll  learn  them,  I  hope, 

If  the  arnica  doesn't  run  out ! 


Glossary:  Revetting — strengthening  trench  sides  with  brush- 
work,  etc.  Parados — opposite  to  parapet;  back  of  a  trench. 
Wattling — basketwork  to  hold  dirt.  Facine — a  bundle  of 
sticks.  Traverse — zigzag  trenches.  Redoubt — a  heavily  forti 
fied  bit  of  trench. 


[36] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  BREAKING  POINT 

'T^HERE'S  a  feud  between  Kelly  and  Klaw, 
•*•        They  sputter  like  steaks  on  a  grid, 
For  Klaw  calls  big  Kelly  a  Chaw 

And  Kelly  says  Klaw  is  a  Yid  ; 
There's  a  row  between  Linton  and  Jones 

And  there's  trouble  with  Hyland  and  Wright, 
And  our  barrack  resounds  with  the  tones 

Of  quarrel,  dissension  and  fight. 


We  used  to  be  joyous  and  blithe 

And  pleasant  and  placid  to  boot, 
But  lately  two-thirds  of  us  writhe 

In  a  nervous  excitement  acute; 
We're  fidgety,  crochety,  sore, 

We  wake  at  the  dawn  with  a  scowl, 
And  things  that  we  grinned  at  before 

Now  cause  us  to  curse  and  to  growl. 


The  reason?   It's  simple  enough : 

We've  worked  and  we've  studied  and  grilled, 
We've  gone  through  a  mill  that  is  rough, 

We've  dug  and  we've  hiked  and  we've  drilled, 
And  now  that  we're  pretty  near  through 

And  most  of  the  labour  is  past, 
We're  fretting  and  wondering  who 

Will  land  the  commissions  at  last. 
[37] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  BREAKING  POINT  (continued) 
There's  rumour  and  whisper  at  mess 

And  guesses  in  trench  and  latrine, 
We  spread  wild  reports  as  we  dress, 

We  gossip  at  school  and  canteen, 
We  hear  they'll  examine  on  this 

Or  lay  all  their  stress  upon  that. 
What  marvel  our  nerves  go  amiss 

And  every  one  talks  through  his  hat? 

But  wait  till  it's  over;  then  Klaw 

And  Kelly  will  patch  up  their  row, 
And  Linton  and  Jones  will  haw !  haw ! 

At  the  way  that  they  carry  on  now ; 
The  winners  and  those  they  defeat 

Will  act  like  good  men  who  fought  well, 
For  the  finish  is  not  hard  to  meet — 

It's  only  the  worry  that's  hell. 


[38] 


BOYS  OF  THE  DRAFT 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  RECRUIT 


T  USED  to  wake  up  with  a  sticky  tongue 
•1    And  an  eye  that  was  dull  and  red, 
And  the  songs  that  the  early  birdies  sung 

I  heard  on  my  way  to  bed; 
But  now  I  jump  with  the  reveille 

And  my  eyes  are  bright  and  clear 
And  I  thank  my  lucky  stars  each  day 

That  the  government  brought  me  here. 


I  used  to  be  mean  as  a  hermit  crab 

Till  I'd  swallowed  my  morning  drink, 
But  now  that  I'm  wearing  the  Olive  Drab 

I'm  blithe  as  a  bobolink, 
For  the  fresh  air  thrills  through  my  throat  and  chest 

And  I  just  want  to  shout  and  roar, 
And  life  has  a  savour,  a  zip,  a  zest 

That  I  never  have  known  before. 

I  used  to  be  flabby  and  soft  and  white 

When  I  sat  at  a  desk  in  town, 
But  since  I've  been  learning  the  way  to  fight 

I'm  husky  and  hard  and  brown. 
It  took  a  cocktail  to  make  me  eat 

The  choicest  of  food,  but  now 
You  watch  me  march  to  a  mess-shack  seat 

And  wade  through  the  army  chow. 
[41] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  RECRUIT  (continued) 
So  I  smile  a  sort  of  a  shame-faced  smile 

When  I  think  how  I  plead  exempt, 
And  I'm  glad  that  the  board  saw  through  my  guile 

With  a  glance  of  cool  contempt ; 
And  though  I  may  perish  across  the  seas, 

I'll  be  one  of  a  splendid  clan, 
For  the  army's  taken  a  piece  of  cheese 

And  made  it  into  a  Man  t 


[4*] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  OLD  TOP  SERGEANT 

'T^WENTY  years  of  the  army,  of  drawing  a  ser- 
A        geant's  pay 
And  helping  the  West  Point  shavetails,  fresh  from 

the  training  school, 
To  handle  a  bunch  of  soldiers  and  drill  'em  the  proper 

way 
(Which  isn't  always  exactly  according  to  book  and 

rule). 
I've  seen  'em  rise  to  Captains  and  Majors  and  Colonels, 

too, 
And  me  still  only  a  sergeant,  the  same  as  I  used  to 

be, 
And  I  knew  that  some  of  them  didn't  know  as  much 

as  a  sergeant  knew, 

But  I  stuck  to  my  daily  duty — there  wasn't  a  growl 
from  me. 


Twenty  years  of  the  army, 
Serving  in  peace  and  war, 

Standing  the  drill  of  the  army  mill, 
For  that's  what  they  paid  me  for. 


Twenty  years  with  the  army,  which  wasn't  so  much 

for  size, 

But  man  for  man  I'd  back  it  to  lick  any  troops  on 
earth. 

[43] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  OLD  TOP  SERGEANT  (continued) 

'Twas  a  proud,  little,  classy  army,  as  good  as  the  flag 

it  flies, 
And  it  takes  an  old  top  sergeant  to  know  what  the 

flag  is  worth. 

Then — a  shot  at  Sarejevo,  and  hell  burst  over  there 
And  the  Kaiser  dragged  us  in  it,  and  the  bill  for  the 

draft  was  passed 
And — they   handed   me   my   commission,   and   some 

shoulder  straps  to  wear, 

And    the    crazy    dream    of    my    rooky    days    had 
changed  to  a  fact  at  last. 

Twenty  years  with  the  army, 
And  it's  great  to  know  they  call 

On  the  guys  like  me  for  what  will  be 
The  mightiest  job  of  all. 

Twenty  years  of  the  army,  of  doing  what  shavetails 

bid, 
And  I  know  I  haven't  the  polish  that  fellows  like 

that  will  show, 
And  I  hold  a  high  opinion  of  the  brains  of  a  West 

Point  kid, 
But  I  think  I  can  make  him  hustle  when  it  comes 

to  the  work  I  know. 
But  who  cares  where  we  come  from,  Plattsburg,  ranks, 

or  the  Guard, 
This  isn't  a  pink  tea-party,  but  a  War  to  be  fought 

and  won; 
There's  a  serious  job  before  us,  a  job  that  is  huge  and 

hard, 

And  the  social  register  don't  count  until  we've  got 
it  done! 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  OLD  TOP  SERGEANT  (continued) 
Twenty  years  in  the  army, 

And  now  I've  got  my  chance. 
Have  I  earned  my  straps?    Well,  you  watch 

the  chaps 
That  I've  trained  for  the  game  in  France ! 


t45l 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


"K.  P." 

A  H !  Kitchen  Police  is  the  duty  that  creases 
•**•      A  lot  of  new  lines  in  your  brow ; 
It  keeps  a  guy  hustling  when  detailed  for  rustling 

The  daily  allowance  of  chow. 
The  Murphies  I'm  peeling  have  set  my  mind  reeling, 

I've  done  seven  billion  and  three, 
When  I  get  away  from  this  job  I'll  be  grey  from 
K.  P. 


But  there's  no  escaping  from  scrubbing  and  scraping 

The  pans  and  the  pots  and  the  plates, 
And  bringing  in  fuel  and  ladling  out  gruel 

And  paring  the  onions  by  crates; 
My  nerves  are  all  shaken  from  smelling  the  bacon, 

The  coffee,  the  beans,  and  the  tea, 
My  hunger's  departed;  who  was  it  that  started 
K.  P.? 


I  thought  I'd  be  fighting  the  Germans,  and  righting 

The  wrongs  that  the  papers  portrayed, 
And  here  I  am  wearing  an  apron  and  bearing 

The  task  of  a  scullery  maid ; 
Why,  drilling  is  easy  compared  to  the  greasy 

Hard  labour  they've  handed  to  me, 
This  cleaning  of  fishes  and  juggling  of  dishes, 
K.  P.! 

[46] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


"K.  P."  (continued) 

Say,  when  by  a  drive  at  the  Bosche  we  arrive  at 

The  widely  known  town  of  Berlin, 
And  cheerfully — rather — we  reach  out  and  gather 

The  Kaiser  and  Hindenburg  in, 
I've  got  a  suggestion  to  settle  the  question 

Of  what  we  shall  do  with  'em:  Gee! 
I'd  thrill  to  be  viewing  the  pair  of  them  doing 
K.  P.! 


[47] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


JACKS  OF  ALL  TRADES 

UNCLE  SAM  reached  out  and  took  us,  so  of  course 
we  went  and  came 

To  his  school  of  preparation  for  the  military  game ; 
We  laid  down  the  tools  of  labour  for  our  rifles  and  our 

packs, 
Wrapped  our  clothing  into  bundles  and  put  khaki  on 

our  backs. 
Yes,  we  left  the  farm  and  office  and  the  counter  and 

the  mill, 
And  the  time  clock  all  behind  us,  but  we  hadn't  left 

our  skill; 
And  while  fighting  in  the  trenches  is  the  work  we  have 

in  view, 
Any  other  job  you  mention  is  the  kind  that  we  can  do. 

For  the  farmers  and  the  plumbers 

And  the  agents  and  the  drummers 
And  the  miners  from  the  tunnel  and  the  shaft, 

And  the  puddlers  and  the  tailors 

And  the  lumbermen  and  sailors 
Have  their  quota  in  the  Army  of  the  Draft. 

We  are  learning  to  be  soldiers  who  can  hand  the  gaff 

to  Fritz, 

With  a  stew  pan  for  a  kelly  and  our  rifles  in  our  mitts, 
But  if  there's  a  strike  of  workers  on  the  recreation  hall 

[48] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


JACKS  OF  ALL  TRADES  (continued) 

We've  a  bunch  of  boys  among  us  who  can  build  it, 

stage  and  all. 
They  can  paint  the  scenes  and  shift  'em,  they  can  write 

and  act  a  play 
With  a  list  of  star  performers  that  would  daze  the 

Great  White  Way, 
For  the  pick  of  each  profession  and  the  class  of  every 

trade 
Are  assembled  here  together  in  the  army  we  have 

made. 


Yes,  the  digger  of  the  sewer 
And  the  butcher  and  the  brewer 

And  the  politician,  leaving  all  his  graft, 
And  the  writer  and  the  actor 
And  the  garment  sub-contractor 

Have  their  quota  in  the  Army  of  the  Draft! 


We  have  many  expert  cracksmen  who  are  pretty  sure 
to  shine 

In  the  job  of  prying  spaces  through  the  mighty  Ger 
man  line; 

We  have  engineers  and  sandhogs  who  will  presently 
begin 

On  the  digging  of  a  subway  that  will  take  us  to 
Berlin. 

We're  an  army  of  civilians  who  are  being  trained  for 
war, 

But  the  work  of  smashing  Germans  isn't  all  we're 
fitted  for; 

[49] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


JACKS  OF  ALL  TRADES  (continued) 

We're  a  varied  bunch  of  toilers  from  a  big  and  busy 

land 
That  our  Uncle  Sam  has  summoned  for  a  job  he  has 

on  hand. 

For  he  gets  the  high  and  lowly 

And  the  wicked  and  the  holy 
And  the  men  of  every  trade  and  every  craft, 

And  we'll  work  and  win  together 

As  we  battle  hell-for-leather 
In  the  democratic  Army  of  the  Draft ! 


[50] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  COMB  BAND 


OH !  we  love  the  gay  Victrola  in  the  watches  of  the 
night 

And  we  sit  about  and  listen  to  its  records  with  delight, 
And  we  like  to  hear  the  music  of  the  regimental  band 
While  the  leader  juggles  gaily  with  the  baton  in  his 

hand, 
But  the  melody  that's  sweetest  as  we  linger  in  the 

gloam 
Is  the  harmony  extracted  from  a  fine  tooth  comb. 


Yes,  we  get  some  tissue  paper  and  some  combs  from 

out  our  kit 
And  we  gather  in  the  squad-tent  where  the  lantern 

shadows  flit, 
And  we  play  a  bunch  of  ragtime  with  a  lot  of  vim  and 

go, 
In  a  sort  of  jazz-band  rhythm — all  the  latest  stuff  we 

know; 
.Tunes  that  set  your  shoulders  swaying,  while  your 

thoughts  are  light  as  foam, 
To  the  sound  of  syncopation  on  a  fine  tooth  comb. 

It's  a  crazy  sort  of  music  which  would  drive  a  critic 

mad, 
But  it  makes  the  evenings  shorter  and  it  really  ain't 

so  bad; 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  COMB  BAND  (continued) 

And  it  often  kind  of  gets  you  when  the  boys  start  in 
to  play, 

For  Fve  seen  some  homesick  fellows  wipe  a  tear  or 
two  away 

To  the  strains  of  "Suwanee  River"  and  "My  Old  Ken 
tucky  Home" 

As  they  float  in  wistful  minors  from  a  fine  tooth  comb. 

When  this  cruel  war  is  over — and  I  hope  I'll  last  it 

through — 

And  we  beat  the  German  army — as  we  all  intend  to  do ; 
When  the  slaughtering  is  finished  and  the  final  fight 

we  win 
And  with  flags  and  pennons  flying  we  go  marching 

through  Berlin, 
I  would  like  to  tramp  in  triumph  past  the  Kaiser's 

palace  dome 
Playing  "Stars  and  Stripes  Forever!"  on  a  fine  tooth 

comb! 


[52] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  SLICKER 

OH !  the  slicker  makes  a  dicker  for  a  u-ne-f orm 
That's  the  very  latest  style  and  cut; 
He  is  military,  very,  where  the  ladies  swarm 

And  you  ought  to  see  the  beggar  strut. 
Just  to  suit  him  we  salute  him  as  he  breezes  by 

In  the  khaki  of  a  fighting  man, 
But  he  never  will  endeavour  to  go  forth  to  die, 
And  he'll  stay  as  far  from  trouble  as  he  can. 


Every  fellow  isn't  yellow  in  the  ordnance  corps; 

There  are  plenty  who  are  first-rate  men. 
It's  the  codger  who's  a  dodger  that  we  all  abhor, 

That  has  ducked  the  draft  to  wield  a  pen ; 
One  who  blenches  at  the  trenches,  though  his  frame  is 
dressed 

In  the  garments  that  the  soldiers  wear; 
It's  the  cutie  seeking  duty  in  a  nice  warm  nest 

Very  far  away  from  "Over  There." 


He's  a  showboy,  not  a  doughboy,  in  his  nice  clean 

clothes, 

And  he'll  never  get  'em  muddied  up  in  scraps, 
For  the  rattle  of  a  battle  is  a  thought  he  loathes 
As  he  polishes  his  shoulder  straps. 
[53] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  SLICKER  (continued) 

So  we  greet  him  when  we  meet  him  with  a  smart 
salute 

As  he  swaggers  past,  all  neat  and  trim, 
But  I'm  thinking  he'd  be  shrinking  in  his  khaki  suit 

If  he  knew  the  view  we  take  of  him ! 


[54] 


IN  CAMP  AND  TRENCH 


AMBITION 

(Aviation  Corps) 

T  HAVE  studied  hard  in  the  engine  class 

•*•      And  with  math  I  have  racked  my  brain, 

With  a  penguin  old  I  have  cut  the  grass 

And  I've  ridden  a  practice  plane; 
I've  taken  a  routine  flight  or  two 

And  they  say  that  I'm  not  so  bad, 
But  the  glorious  goal  that  I  have  in  view 

Is  to  pilot  a  combat  Spad ! 

Oh!  to  surge  and  soar  as  the  engines  roar 

And  to  dart  like  a  hawk  awheel, 
And  to  climb  and  swoop  as  I  loop  the  loop 

Or  flash  in  a  giddy  vrille, 
With  my  eyes  alight  and  my  pulses  glad — 

Oh,  Gee,  but  I  long  for  a  combat  Spad! 

I  must  plug  along  in  a  slow  old  hack 

Till  I'm  fit  for  the  test,  I  know, 
Till  I've  learned  the  way  to  the  clouds  and  back 

And  drilled  for  the  war's  big  show ; 
But  I  watch  the  chap  from  the  Esquadrille 

And  my  heart  it  thumps  like  mad 
As  I  think  of  the  joy  a  man  must  feel 

To  fly  in  a  combat  Spad ! 
[55] 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


AMBITION  (continued) 

Oh !  the  way  she  leaps  to  the  stars  and  sweeps 

Through  the  chill  of  the  upper  air, 
I  would  give  my  soul  to  win  control 

Of  a  plane  like  that  up  there, 
To  shoot  through  space  like  the  daring  lad 
Who's  doing  stunts  with  a  combat  Spad. 

Well,  the  time  will  come  when  my  barograph 

Will  register  dizzy  height, 
When  I'll  down  my  Hun  from  the  clouds  and  laugh 

As  I  drive  with  the  speed  of  light, 
With  my  Lewis  drumming  a  song  of  death 

While  the  Gothas  plunge  aflame, 
As  I  taste  adventure  with  every  breath 

And  play  in  the  war's  great  game! 

So  I  wait  my  chance  when  the  air  of  France 

Shall  welcome  me  as  I  rise 
To  dare  my  fate  with  the  Huns  of  Hate 

Who  battle  amid  the  skies. 
I  shall  try  my  luck  with  a  heart  that's  glad 
And  win  or  lose  in  a  combat  Spad! 


[56] 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT 


IN  CAMP  AND  TRENCH 


THE  DOUGHBOY 

HE  kicks  about  his  sergeant 
And  he  kicks  about  his  chow, 
He  grumbles  at  the  drilling 

And  he  makes  an  awful  row 
When  the  bugle  blows  assembly 

And  he's  ordered  on  a  hike, 
For  the  howls  he  makes  are  legion 
At  the  things  he  doesn't  like. 

He  kicks  about  the  shavetail 

And  his  foolish  little  strut; 
He  says  the  Captain's  crazy 

And  the  Colonel  is  a  mutt. 
He  grumbles  at  the  General 

(He  doesn't  know  what  for) 
And  he  says  the  war  department 

Is  mismanaging  the  war. 


He  kicks  about  his  uniform, 

His  mess-kit  and  his  pack; 
He  moans  about  the  danger 

Of  his  never  coming  back. 
Yes,  when  he's  safe  in  barracks 

He's  a  kicker  all  the  while ; 
He  says  the  army's  crummy 

And  a  soldier's  life  is  vile. 
[59] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  DOUGHBOY  (continued) 

But  when  he  gets  in  action 

With  the  other  fighting  men 
You'll  find  this  kicker  changing 

Into  something  else  again. 
He  will  kick  himself  through  hell  fire 

Where  the  battle  tumult  rings, 
.Till  he's  kicked  the  German  Kaiser 

On  the  garbage  heap  of  Kings. 


[60] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


WAR  SONGS 

!  the  songs  that  thrill  the  trenches  are  the  songs 
that  start  the  feet 
Into  keeping  time  and  measure  with  their  syncopated 

beat, 
Not  the  grand  and  stately  music  that  the  sober-minded 

praise, 
But  the  foolish  little  ditties  of  the  shows  and  cabarets. 

In  the  crackle  of  the  rifles  and  the  rumble  of  the  guns 
There's  an  underlying  rhythm  which  interminably  runs 
To  a  mighty  sort  of  ragtime,  as  the  bullets  whine  and 

spat 
And  machine  guns  split  the  ear  drums  with  a  vicious 

rat-a-tat. 

So  the  syncopated  music  of  the  Tin  Pan  Alley  brand 

Is  the  stuff  that  cheers  our  fighters  in  a  far  and  for 
eign  land; 

It's  the  gay  and  careless  cadence  that  seems  always  to 
be  made 

As  a  battle  hymn  in  ragtime  for  the  wholly  unafraid! 


'[61] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


ARTILLERY 

Guns !    Guns ! 

In  the  battle  of  to-day  they're  the  ones ; 
They're  the  bruisers  in  the  fray, 
They're  the  boys  that  clear  the  way, 
Thro  win'  projectiles  by  tons — 
Heavy  guns! 


Yes,  somewhere  way  back  of  the  lines, 

In  a  nice  leafy  bower  or  dell, 
Is  where  the  artillery  shines 

In  givin'  the  enemy  hell ; 
The  guns  waddle  up  through  the  mire 

Like  a  fat  lady  walks  on  her  pins, 
But  when  the  command  comes  to  fire, 

Well,  that's  when  the  straffm'  begins. 


The  muzzles  heaves  up  to  the  sky, 

The  lanyards  is  pulled,  there's  a  roar ; 
The  shells  whistles,  curvin'  up  high, 

And  then  there  is  more — an'  still  more. 
The  gunners  they  sweats  an*  they  smiles 

As  carriages  shiver  an'  wrench, 
An'  way  off — some  several  miles — 

Them  shells  has  abolished  a  trench. 
[62] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


ARTILLERY  (continued) 

Your  infantry  may  be  O.  K., 

But  when  you  prepare  for  a  charge 
If  big  guns  ain't  clearin*  the  way 

You're  gonta  be  smashed,  by  an*  large. 
It's  guns  that  rips  bomb  proofs  to  bits 

An'  barb  wire  entanglements,  too; 
It's  guns  gives  the  enemy  fits 

So  infantrymen  kin  break  through! 

Yes,  you've  gotta  have  the  guns, 
Heavy  guns, 

Throwin'  shells  by  tons  an*  tons, 

Shells  that  smashes  an'  that  stuns; 
They're  the  bruisers  of  the  fray, 
They're  the  boys  that  clears  the  way, 

In  the  warfare  of  to-day  they're  the  ones — 
Bully  guns! 


[63] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  ROOTER 

JIM  FISHER  was  a  shiftless  duck 
Who  had  but  little  to  his  credit, 
He  blamed  his  poor  estate  on  luck 
But  people  snickered  when  he  said  it. 


They  knew  he  dodged  the  thought  of  work 
And  looked  for  it  but  feared  to  find  it ; 

They  said  his  middle  name  was  Shirk, 
And  Jim,  he  loafed,  and  didn't  mind  it. 


It  would  be  hard  to  name  a  task 
That  Jim  was  ever  sawing  wood  at, 

But,  just  in  case  some  one  should  ask, 
There  was  one  stunt  that  he  was  good  at. 


He  was  a  rooter  superfine, 
A  fan  beyond  all  sense  or  reason ; 

He  ballyhooed  behind  the  nine 
At  every  contest  through  the  season. 


He  yelled  and  hooted  long  and  loud, 

He  cheered  and  sang  through  thin  and  thick ;  it 
Was  so  amusing  to  the  crowd 

That  he  got  in  without  a  ticket. 
[64] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  ROOTER  (continued) 

An  umpire's  goat  he  loved  to  bait. 

He  liked  to  thrill  the  rooters'  caucus 
With  howls  that  seemed  to  ululate 
And  cries  of  "Robber"  hoarse  and  raucous. 


And  many  times  when  there  was  doubt 
About  the  home  town's  chance  of  winning, 

Jim's  bellow  helped  to  pull  them  out 
To  triumph  in  the  final  inning. 


So  when  upon  the  army  draft 

It  pleased  just  Destiny  to  list  him, 

Though  many  people  grinned  and  laughed, 
You  bet  the  baseball  rooters  missed  him! 


But  though  he  was  a  lazy  gink 

Who,  up  to  then,  through  life  had  stumbled, 
He  took  his  dose  without  a  blink — 

He  was  a  sport,  and  never  grumbled. 

At  last  they  sent  him  on  his  way 
To  face  grim  battle  in  the  trenches; 

He  marched  with  temper  light  and  gay 
And  winked  at  all  the  Gallic  wenches. 


One  day  the  Bosche  artillery 

Began  an  extra  heavy  shelling; 
All  Hades  suddenly  broke  free 

Within  the  trench  where  Jim  was  dwelling. 
[65] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  ROOTER  (continued) 

It  seemed  that  awful  bath  of  fire 

Would  never,  never  discontinue; 
It  killed  and  buried  men  in  mire 

And  racked  the  others,  brain  and  sinew. 

And  then  there  came  a  charge  of  Huns, 
They  looked  tremendous  and  titanic; 

Jim's  comrades,  dropping  all  their  guns, 
Started  to  run  in  sudden  panic. 

Then,  high  above  the  battle  roar 
Sounded  a  most  appalling  hooting; 

It  was  Jim  Fisher,  as  of  yore, 

Bellowing,  shouting,  screaming,  rooting! 

"Come  awn!"  he  yelled.    "Come  awn,  play  ball! 

Them  guys  ain't  got  a  thing  to  show  us. 
Come  awn — one  smash,  one  smash,  that's  all, 

One  smash  an*  they  won't  want  to  know  us. 

"Come  awn,  wake  up,  get  in  the  game, 

We'll  send  these  Potsdam  bushers  spinning! 

Come  awn,  boys,  come — "  They  heard — and  came, 
And  won  out  in  the  final  inning! 


[66] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THANKSGIVING 
SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE 

I'M  sittin'  here  in  a  muddy  trench 
Somewhere  on  the  Flanders  line, 
While  the  rain  comes  down  in  a  steady  drench 

An*  the  shells  from  the  Bosches  whine; 
An*  the  folks  are  havin'  a  feast  at  home 

While  I'm  in  the  muck  of  war, 

An*  I  sit  an'  rattle  my  tired  dome 

To  think  what  I'm  thankful  for. 


Then  all  of  a  sudden  it  comes  to  me 

An'  I  lift  up  my  head  an'  smile, 
An*  my  heart  it  jumps  in  a  bust  of  glee 

An'  I  laughs  to  myself  awhile ; 
For  though  I'm  here  in  a  smelly  spot 

In  the  middle  of  death  an'  war, 
Good  Lord-amighty,  I  know  I've  got 

A  heap  to  be  thankful  for ! 


An*  here  is  the  cause  I've  got  for  thanks 

I'm  livin'  as  fits  a  Man, 
I'm  doin'  my  bit  in  freedom's  ranks 

An'  fightin'  the  best  I  can. 
[67] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THANKSGIVING  (continued) 

Before  I  joined  in  this  mighty  show 

I  plugged  at  a  routine  job, 
An*  life  was  easy  an*  safe — an*  slow, 

With  never  a  thrill  or  throb. 

But  now,  though  I'm  in  the  midst  of  death 

An*  half  of  the  time  is  hell, 
I  taste  adventure  with  every  breath 

In  the  roar  of  the  shot  an*  shell. 
An*  the  rats  may  scamper  an*  cooties  bite, 

A  habit  that  I  abhor, 
But  I'm  in  the  thick  of  a  Man's-sized  fight 

An'  it's  one  I'm  thankful  for! 

Say,  when  I  think  of  the  way  I'd  feel 

If  I  was  a  slacker  guy, 
Afraid  to  cut  an'  afraid  to  deal 

In  a  game  where  the  stakes  is  high, 
I  says  to  myself :  "Say,  you,  buck  up, 

You  got  no  cause  to  kick; 
Give  thanks  that  you  ain't  no  slacker  pup 

With  a  heart  that's  weak  an'  sick !" 

I  ain't  a  hero — you  get  me,  Jack? 

But  nevertheless  I  ain't 
No  quakin'  boob  with  a  jelly  back 

An'  a  stomach  that's  always  faint. 
No  doubt  them  fellers  is  glad  to  miss 

The  sound  of  the  bugle  call, 
But  if  I  die  in  a  war  like  this, 

They  never  have  lived  at  all ! 
[68] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THANKSGIVING  (continued) 

So  I'm  glad  an*  thankful  that  I  have  been 

A  part  of  this  roarin*  game ; 
That  I  have  suffered  an*  fought  with  Men 

An*  took  each  chance  that  came. 
You  may  die  soon,  but  you  live  a  lot 

In  this  ugly  old  sport  of  war, 
So  takin'  it  all  in  all  I've  got 

A  heap  to  be  thankful  for ! 


[69] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SERMON 

WE  was  sittin'  tight  in  a  dug-out 
An*  playin'  a  game  of  rum, 
For  ours  was  a  quiet  sector  then 

An*  Fritz's  guns  was  dumb, 
When  a  footstep  crunched  in  the  ice  outside 
An'  in  the  Chaplain  come. 

Now  our  Chaplain  hailed  from  Princeton, 

He  was  husky  an*  full  of  vim; 
He'd  been  a  guard  in  his  college  days 

An'  he'd  always  kept  in  trim, 
An*  there  wasn't  a  soldier  in  the  trench 

That  had  more  nerve  than  him. 

Well,  he  come  in  that  dirty  dug-out 

In  a  kind  of  a  smilin'  way, 
An'  he  says  to  us:  "Boys,  I'm  thinkin' 

Of  havin'  some  words  to  say — 
A  kind  of  a  sort  of  a  sermon 

That's  fitted  to  Christmas  day." 

"Sure,  shoot  it,"  says  Spike  McGuggan. 

"In  all  of  this  muck  an*  grime 
I'd  like  to  hear  some  woids  of  cheer 

To  make  me  forget  this  slime, 
Fer  you  gotta  admit  that  a  day  like  this 

Is  a  heluva  Christmas  time!" 
[70] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SERMON  (continued) 

So  we  throws  down  the  cards  we're  playin* 

An*  eight  of  us  boys,  or  ten, 
Is  gathered  around  the  parson 

While  he  clears  his  throat,  an*  then 
He  starts  off  a  bully  sermon 

On  "Peace  an'  Good  Will  to  Men." 

But  he  just  gets  nicely  goin* 

An'  you  bet  we  didn't  scoff 
When  the  sentries  yells:  "Hi,  fellers, 

Our  old  friend  Fritz  is  off; 
He's  throwin'  a  bunch  of  hand  grenades 

An'  startin'  a  Christmas  strafe!" 

We  grabs  our  masks  an'  rifles 
(An*  the  Chaplain  grabs  one,  too) 

An'  we  all  piles  out  in  the  ice  cold  trench 
In  a  fearful  hullyballoo, 

For  the  Huns  has  started  over  the  top 
An*  there's  work  for  us  to  do. 

The  parson  sights  his  rifle 

An'  every  time  she  pops 
Out  there  in  the  middle  of  No  Man's  Land 

Some  field  grey  figger  drops, 
An'  the  parson  grins  a  happy  grin 

Whenever  a  German  flops. 

Says  I :  "If  peace  was  the  thing  you  preached, 

Then  what  are  you  fightin*  for?" 
The  parson  answers:  "We'll  give  'em  peace 
[71] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SERMON  (continued) 

By  makin'  'em  sick  of  war, 
For  the  fellow  who  will  not  fight  for  peace 
Is  a  person  that  I  abhor." 

'Twas  a  lively  show,  but  we  smashed  the  Huns 

An*  we  drove  them  back  again. 
An*  the  Chaplain  takes  one  final  shot 

An*  puts  down  his  gun,  an*  then 
He  finishes  up  his  Christmas  talk 

On  "Peace  an'  Good  Will  to  Men!" 


[72] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  SEARCH 

TTE'D  come  to  the  city  and  bucked  the  big  game 

•*•  -*•      And,  playing  the  best  that  he  could, 

He  won  some  small  portion  of  money  and  fame ; 

In  brief,  he  had  surely  "made  good," 
He  knew  everybody  worth  knowing  at  all, 

His  life  was  both  varied  and  gay, 
But  there  was  an  ennui  that  held  him  in  thrall 

And  nothing  could  brush  it  away. 

The  brightest  of  parties,  the  keenest  of  wits, 

The  plaudits  that  come  from  the  crowd, 
All  life's  panorama  that  changes  and  flits 

Failed  wholly  at  lifting  his  cloud ; 
He  wasn't  a  roue,  all  wearied  and  spent, 

He  worked  with  a  vim  and  a  will, 
Yet  somehow  he  lived  in  a  vague  discontent, 

Existence  was  lacking  a  thrill. 

There  was  something  he  wanted,  he  didn't  know  what, 

Not  riches,  or  power  or  love ; 
He  sought  it  in  roving  from  spot  unto  spot, 

But  still  found  no  lightening  of 
The  weight  of  depression  that  laid  on  his  heart 

A  dull  and  a  numb  sort  of  pain, 
Which  made  him  a  mortal  aloof  and  apart 

With  a  trouble  he  couldn't  explain. 
[73] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  SEARCH  (continued) 

Then  one  day  he  vanished  completely,  poor  chap, 

And  no  one  could  say  where  he'd  gone, 
Though  all  of  us  wondered  what  part  of  the  map 

He  might  have  alighted  upon. 
We  chatted  about  him,  this  man  who  in  truth 

Was  never  excited  or  stirred, 
Who,  somehow  or  other,  had  never  known  youth 

Or  thrilled  at  a  deed  or  a  word. 

And  then  came  his  letter,  a  message  elate 

With  happiness,  vigor  and  verve. 
He  wrote  to  us:  "Fellows,  there's  nothing  so  great 

As  finding  a  way  you  can  serve ; 
By  losing  myself  I've  discovered  romance 

In  the  heart  of  my  labour  and  strife, 
For  I'm  driving  a  camion  somewhere  in  France 

And  I'm  having  the  time  of  my  life  I" 


[74] 


ON  THE  U-BOAT  TRAIL 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


HEROES 


heroes  of  the  story  books  are  ever  in  a  pose, 
•*•    They  always  die  with  words  of  high  and  lofty 

verse  or  prose, 

But  when  the  old  Tvscania  went  down  with  flying  flag 
Our  khaki  gang  of  heroes  sang  a  gay  and  foolish  rag! 


"Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys,  where  do  we  go 

from  here?" 

Across  the  sea  the  melody  came  dancing  free  and  clear ; 
They  faced  their  fate  with  souls  elate  and  hearts  that 

knew  no  fear, 
With  "Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys,  where  do  we 

go  from  here?" 

"Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys,  where  do  we  go 

from  here?" 
A  song,  in  truth,  of  valiant  youth,  that  never  loses 

cheer ; 
They  felt  the  breath  of  clammy  death,  but  with  a  lilt 

sincere 
Their  laughing  shout  rang  blithely  out,  "Where  do  we 

go  from  here?" 

It  is  a  tale  whose  wondrous  thrill  we  all  of  us  can 
share 

[771 


IN    CAMP    AND    TRENCH 


HEROES  (continued) 

When    brave    men    meet    their    destiny    with    spirit 

debonair. 
What  foe  can  hope  with  boys  to  cope  who  sing,  when 

death  is  near, 
"Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys,  where  do  we  go 

from  here?" 


[78] 


IN  CAMP  AND  TRENCH 


THE  DESTROYER  MEN 


'T^HERE'S  a  roll  and  pitch  and  a  heave  and  hitch 
A        To  the  nautical  gait  they  take, 
For  they're  used  to  the  cant  of  the  decks  aslant 

As  the  white-toothed  combers  break 
On  the  plates  that  thrum  like  a  beaten  drum 

To  the  thrill  of  the  turbines'  might, 
As  the  knife  bow  leaps  through  the  yeasty  deeps 

With  the  speed  of  a  shell  in  flight! 

Oh !  their  scorn  is  quick  for  the  crews  who  stick 

To  a  battleship's  steady  floor, 
For  they  love  the  lurch  of  their  own  frail  perch 

At  thirty-five  knots  or  more. 
They  don't  get  much  of  the  drills  and  such 

That  the  battleship  jackies  do, 
But  sail  the  seas  in  their  dungarees, 

A  grimy  destroyer's  crew. 


They  needn't  climb  at  their  sleeping  time 

To  a  hammock  that  sways  and  bumps, 
They  leap — kerplunk ! — in  a  cosy  bunk 

That  quivers  and  bucks  and  jumps. 
They  hear  the  sound  of  the  seas  that  pound 

On  the  half-inch  plates  of  steel 
And  close  their  eyes  to  the  lullabies 

Of  the  creaking  frame  and  keel. 
[79] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  DESTROYER  MEN  (continued) 
They  scour  the  deep  for  the  subs  that  creep 

On  their  dirty  assassin's  work,     . 
And  their  keenest  fun  is  to  hunt  the  Hun 

Wherever  his  U-boats  lurk. 
They  live  in  hope  that  a  periscope 

Will  show  in  the  deep  sea  swell, 
Then  a  true  shot  hits  and  it's  "Good-bye,  Fritz" 

His  future  address  is  Hell! 

They're  a  lusty  crowd  and  they're  vastly  proud 

Of  the  slim,  swift  craft  they  drive ; 
Of  the  roaring  flues  and  the  humming  screws 

Which  make  her  a  thing  alive. 
They  love  the  lunge  of  her  surging  plunge 

And  the  murk  of  her  smoke  screen,  too, 
As  they  sail  the  seas  in  their  dungarees, 

A  grimy  destroyer's  crew! 


[80] 


IN   CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


NOT  IN  UNIFORM 

haven't  no  khaki  nor  battleship  blue, 
-•-    They're  kind  of  a  nondescript  sort  of  a  crew, 
Hard-handed  and  husky,  but  not  like  you  meet 
On  the  holystoned  decks  of  the  battleship  fleet; 
Nope,  these  here  is  only  the  everyday  guys 
That  handles  the  vessels  what  feeds  the  Allies, 
But — stop  an*  consider  a  bit  what  they  mean — 
These  lads  of  the  merchant  marine! 

They  sails  with  a  cargo  of  beef  or  of  steel, 
Or  T.  N.  T.  maybe,  or  bacon  an*  meal, 
An*  so  they  goes  wallowin',  loaded  for  fair, 
To  feed  an*  munition  the  folks  "over  there." 
An*  if  they  gets  by — well,  they  sighs  with  relief 
An*  comes  back  to  take  on  more  biscuits  an*  beef. 
An*  if  they  gets  sunk — well,  it's  plain  to  be  seen 
That  it's  rough  on  the  merchant  marine. 

They  don't  get  much  glory  for  takin'  a  chance 
On  dyin'  while  steamin'  to  England  or  France, 
For  if  they  gets  rescued  from  drownin'  one  trip 
They  just  comes  up  smilin'  an*  finds  a  new  ship. 
An'  if  they  goes  down  in  a  watery  grave 
There  isn't  no  half-masted  flags  that'll  wave ; 
An'  yet  they're  real  heroes  who're  doin'  their  bit, 
Not  askin'  no  special  approval  for  it ; 
An'  that's  just  the  reason  we  otta  be  keen 
For  the  boys  of  the  merchant  marine! 
[81] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  MINE  SWEEPERS 

OH!  these  are  doughty  fishermen  who  tempt  the 
roaring  gale, 

But  not  for  heaps  of  halibut  or  blubber  of  the  whale ; 
They  sally  forth  from  anchorage,  a  bold  and  nervy 

crew, 
With  drums  of  gleaming  cable  for  the  job  they  have 

to  do; 
They  take  their  open  chances  of  the  many  deaths  that 

lurk, 
They  get  no  hero  medals  for  the  way  they  do  their 

work, 

But  cannily  and  craftily  with  heavy-weighted  lines 
They  sail  the  bounding  billows  as  they  drag  the  sea 

for  mines! 


Their  task  is  daily  labour  and  the  lure  of  it  is  small. 
They  only  comb  the  mine-fields  as  the  greybacks  ric>e 

and  fall, 

And  if  their  cables  snare  a  mine  their  riflemen  take  aim 
And  blow  it  all  to  pieces  in  a  blaze  of  smoke  and  flame. 
And  having  done  that  little  job,  that  ordinary  chore, 
They  throw  the  cables  out  again  and  drag  the  seas  for 

more, 

For  it's  all  a  part  of  business,  of  the  routine  of  the  day, 
And  you've  got  to  do  your  duty  if  you  want  to  earn 

your  pay! 

[82] 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


THE  MINE  SWEEPERS  (continued) 

They  sometimes  have  a  convoy,  and  they  frequently 

have  not, 
As  they  do  their  cautious  fishing  in  a  mine-infested 

spot; 

And  they  oftentimes  are  busy  in  the  harbor  of  the  foe 
While  the  shells  are  gaily  skipping  all  about  them,  to 

and  fro ; 

They  haven't  any  uniforms  or  epaulets  and  such, 
Their  pay  is  nothing  princely  and  their  glory  isn't 

much; 
They're  plain  and  sturdy  fishermen,  with  salt  upon 

their  breath, 
Who  clear  the  way  for  battleships  and  fish  the  seas 

for  death! 


IN    CAMP   AND    TRENCH 


DESERTED  ROADS 

TIME  was  we  sang  of  wanderers  who  trod  the  open 
trail 
And  roved  about  the  merry  world  by  foot  or  train  or 

sail, 
Who  knew  the  wind-swept  spaces  and  who  braved  the 

sun  and  rain 
Or  followed  gipsy  caravans  by  mountain  peak  or  plain. 

But  now  the  roads  are  empty  of  the  blithe  and  restless 

clan 

And  bats  and  owls  are  roosting  in  the  idle  gipsy-van, 
For  every  true  adventurer  who  never  could  be  still 
Has  joined  the  greatest  game  of  all  and  found  a  keener 

thrill. 

They're  somewhere  in  the  trenches  and  they're  some 
where  in  the  air, 

Oh  look  along  the  battle  line  and  you  will  find  them 
there ; 

But  when  the  war  is  over  and  we  welcome  back  our 
men, 

the  rovers — what  are  left  of  them — will  hit  the  trail 
again ! 


[84] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


N  G  I 


ifrCr 


LD  21-100m-7,'39(402s) 


YB  73243 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


